


Last Breath

by xpaperheartso



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Everyone lives/Nobody dies, Gun Violence, I love these cowboys too much to let them die, M/M, Some angst, The fallen get a second chance, only a few Bible verses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-11-16
Packaged: 2018-08-23 09:10:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8322208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xpaperheartso/pseuds/xpaperheartso
Summary: They should be dead. Everything should be dark, cold and quiet, yet the popping sound of gunfire could be heard, and the air was thick and smelled of gunpowder and sweat. They should be dead, but the sun beating down on their aching bodies was real.





	1. Jack Horne

**Author's Note:**

> So I just can't get over my utter betrayal due to the ending of the movie, even after a second time watching it, so I decided to try and get vaguely mystical with this.  
> There really is no set 'deity' or anything, but something definitely felt their sacrifice earned more than a proper burial. 
> 
> Also sorry this one is so short! Chapter length will vary between chapters.

_“A man is called a saint not because he does no longer sin but because he recognizes his weakness and seeks forgiveness every time he falls.”_  
-Bangambiki Habyarimana

* * *

  
  
 The sensation of an arrow head buried within his flesh wasn’t new. A legend such as himself knew how to extract the troublesome and deadly heads, but that had only included a single arrow into the equation.  
  
 Horne was more annoyed than anything, fixing the armed Comanche with a deadly glare. His pickaxes had been abandoned within the necks of corpses in his and Teddy’s escape from the Gatling gun, otherwise Denali would have been fated to die the same as the younger Pigeon brother days before. The older man started towards the enemy, arrow much more of a hindrance than anything else. Horne halted as a second arrow pierced his right shoulder, baring his teeth at the Comanche who was already notching another arrow. The third arrow struck him in the chest as he quoted the Bible, to the left and somewhere that bloomed with pain, the mountain man falling to his knees in the dust.  
  
 Memories always seemed to choose their moments, flooding one's mind without discrimination between the good ones and the bad. Denali was replaced with a lone Crow, the town of Rose Creek falling away to a garden beside a lone cabin where blood dripped from the Native man’s hatchet. There was more anger, more blood-lust bubbling up within Horne before the image dispersed like dust in the wind, the Seven dominating his mind’s vision. A sense of camaraderie came with it - washing over the rage, but not extinguishing it - as the night before and others before that took their turn in the spotlight. Red Harvest stood out among them, the smirk on his face in response to Horne’s uttered surprise at his English settling deep within the old tracker.  
  
He stretched his right hand forward, teeth grinding together as emotions drove him well past the point any ordinary man would have lasted with three arrows embedded in his person. The fourth and final arrow pierced his hand and Horne could not bite back the grunted outcry of pain. He blinked a few times, taking heavy breaths as he abandoned his gaze on the Comanche. He prayed Teddy had scrambled to hide, wounded hand falling to his side as he failed to find any words from the Good Book to utter.  
  
_Keep your promise, Lord, and forgive my sins, for they are many._  
  
 Another huff of air, another prayer exiting his thoughts as he asked, one last time, for the Lord to cast his light upon this town and the men he’d come to call friends.  
  
_But the Lord is faithful, and he will strengthen you and protect you from the evil one._  
  
 His gaze fell to the earth, vision going hazy and dark, his lost family appearing once more for only a moment before the words he’d exchanged with Red Harvest whispered at his fading conscious.


	2. Goodnight Robicheaux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say thank you so so much to all the kudos and the great comments so far!! It truly does mean a lot and I hope you guys enjoy this next installment!

_“Courage is a peculiar kind of fear.”_  
-Charles Kennedy

* * *

  
  
 He’s heard many things in his life; the sound of hundreds of rifles firing almost simultaneously at a common enemy - the majority under his command. Fatally wounded men crying out in unabashed agony - some begging for mercy and others for a bullet between the eyes.

The sound of an owl calling after him and all his damnable sins.  
  
He’s also heard whispered tall tales of what happens when a man is about to die. Some had spoken of Divine Intervention and guardian angels who had saved men who were most certainly supposed to die. Others talked of different entities, one of mercy or those who could spare you depending on how good of a person you’d been or how clean your soul was. The former soldier had never paid much mind to any of it, other than find it something interesting to listen to when warming his belly with a drink.  
  
 Even when death had loomed ever closer as the sun rose higher in the sky with each passing minute, he hadn’t entertained much thought into what he’d heard over the years. Of course he’d fretted over his final moments - the battle that had awaited them was the sort not everyone walked away from. The voices had promised a gruesome death should he take another life - more red for his blood-soaked ledger - and so he’d fled before the sun had even a chance to peek over the horizon.  
  
 The haunting pop-tap-pop-tap of a gatling gun was regrettably familiar to Goodnight, but this one seemed louder than the others as it tore into the small town of Rose Creek. The Cajun had paused over a ridge beyond the town, hands shaking as he thought of Billy and what would happen if he ran. Despite the fatal promises the voices had chanted, he returned in time to warn the others of the death machine upon the hill - brief flashes of bodies crumpling like dolls under its fire dominating his thoughts before he shoved them down deep. In the moment, he had briefly considered the number of lives he’d just saved, as if it would’ve helped to ease the specters at his ankles and the ponderous weight upon his shoulders, but the older man had simply pushed it away to focus on the task at hand.  
  
 The sound of Billy laughing - the both of them cackling in what could have been brief hysteria - drowned out the hissing and hooting in his head as each body that fell to his bullet added to his body count. They _had_ to win, and when Joshua _fucking_ Faraday began his charge on the gun, Goodnight knew. A gruesome death was promised, and whether it befell Goodnight or not, he wasn’t to be the only one punished. There had been a look between himself and Billy, a look that communicated more than a simple plan, the kind of look that people share when the bond between them was dug deeper than a well and the thread the color of red. There had been a battle cry - Goodnight was sure it was his own - and he kept firing even when he noticed the glint of the gun as it changed direction.  
  
 He hadn’t had time to conjure up any last thoughts other than covering the young gambler as he rode towards what many would call a heroic death, but one came quick enough as the pop-tap-pop rang through the arid air once more.  
  
  _Billy..._  
  
 He’d heard a few times from men with plenty of whiskey in their bellies and scars upon their sweaty skin that when you’re about to die from a bullet, time goes slow - ‘like molasses’ as one fellow had put it. Goodnight had dismissed the notion as always - he’d been shot before and not _once_ had time ever slowed down. Neither had the bullets slowed for the men - the _boys_ \- under his command all those years ago.  
  
_I’m sorry I left..._  
  
 He blinked and felt his body convulse as the bullets cut through him, the pain not registering right away. The too-bright sun was suddenly in his eyes, nearly blinding him as more bullets pelted his body, a few entering at odd angles compared to the others. Still, Goodnight could only feel his body become more riddled with holes, the impact from so many projectiles pushing him backwards so that he lost his balance before lurching sideways, splitting the charred beam as he rolled onto the roof of the church. It was only as he tumbled off the edge and onto the hard-packed earth that things went fuzzy and sharp as a hundred knives all at once.  
  
 The explosion of pain in his head seemed almost cushioned, the lesser impact enough to warrant a terrible headache, but nothing much worse. His bones within his battle-worn frame went fuzzy too, the impact of the ground knocking every bit of air from his lungs, while his ribs - who didn’t appreciate the rough fall - cracked from the impact. Each hole bled into the dirt beneath him, the pierced flesh flaring in agony due to the impact with the ground.

The former soldier would have tried to contemplate his death - for he was definitely sure he was slowly dying, but between the sudden lack of air, the pain in his head, and blood loss, unconsciousness claimed him before he had time to wonder about his mon cher in the steeple.  
  
 What he did spot in that tiny fraction of time between consciousness and encroaching darkness was the crumpled body of an owl, wings twisted painfully and blood - dark like his soldiers’ had been - marking the bullet hole in its chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again for reading! :D  
> This one had a lot of edits - mainly because I kept doubting my characterization of Goody - but I'm satisfied with how this one turned out.


	3. Billy Rocks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Touch had always been a part of their relationship, secret and reserved for starlit nights in the unpredictable wilds or shared rooms at dusty inns. It started as an ember, glowing dim at first, slowly growing warmer as time wore on and on, its glow building towards a spark until a fire was finally ignited. With every crash of their lips and roaming of hands the flame roared to life, climbing high into the sky and singing the feathers of the vengeful owl always lingering above them.

_"It is love, not reason, that is stronger than death."_

\- Thomas Mann

* * *

 

It hadn’t taken long for Billy Rocks to witness who the “Angel of Death” Goodnight Robicheaux had become after the War of Northern Aggression - how a man with such prestige and war-won honor from the blood of countless soldiers and their lost souls on haunted battlefields -  was victim to night terrors so vicious his body shook like a leaf with skin slick with sweat. The legendary sharpshooter had been tracking him, toting his signature rifle - sans loaded bullets - to collect a warrant for a certain Billy Rocks. In that gritty saloon Goodnight had stood there almost grandiosely, matching grey coat and pants looking nigh on pristine considering the dust that seemed to coat everything. Even his expression had been of a difference, eyes narrowed at the scene he'd found Billy at the center of, chapped lips curled up along one corner as if something had hinted at being amusing. His tone had been somewhat light, somewhere between amused and impressed, yet also carried throughout most of the saloon as the multi-syllabic words that left his mouth quieted any other speakers.

  When it first happened, the assassin had been unsure how to respond, his new companion and former head hunter laid across from him, trapped in the unforgiving claws of a nightmare. His touches had been hesitant at first, calling his name rather than shaking him - for waking a man cocooned in such dreams was a risky gamble that usually involved fists and blind terror. Billy withdrew his hands whenever the sharpshooter awoke with a start, gasping for air as if he’d been deprived, while his sweat-soaked skin glistened under the moonlight. Goodnight spoke not a word to his new comrade, other than a breathy apology, and Billy did not ask or pry. Though they were traveling together, it had not been his business to ask why the white man suffered, the Asian still wary of the company.

Eventually though, as they passed through town after town with more money in their pockets thanks to his knack for knives - a skill that stoked cocksure gunslingers into a challenge of bullets to knives - Billy’s touches had begun to linger, providing a warm anchor on the shoulder of the former soldier as he murmured what Goody already knew, the older man busy trying to settle his breathing. The physical contact was usually returned by shaking hands with sweaty palms as an owl’s cry broke the silence of the night.  
  
 As the years rolled on, Billy introduced the war-racked Cajun to special cigarettes laced with opium, which helped significantly for whenever his trauma struck him in broad daylight from gunfire, or when the owl tracked Goody down and was screeching vicious promises in his ear. It was also convenient, as they were forced to reduce their contact whenever not in their own private company - save for an occasional amicable pat on the back or shoulder after winning yet another quickdraw. By then, arms were around shoulders when there were no strangers’ eyes to pry, and most times there was hardly space between them. Alone, they shared everything from food to cigarettes, but they never quite amounted to the level of comfort the warm, grounding, and affectionate touch of the other provided.  
  
 Among the Seven, their usual walls and restrictions slowly fell away with time, sharing cigarettes and drinks openly, shoulders brushing and hands lingering on shoulders. Goodnight and Sam had been close, going by the stories the former had told him about, which had made it easier for Billy to trust the bounty hunter. Perhaps the fact that they could very well die in a week’s time also played a part in their lack of subtlety, but regardless, the others never bothered to call them out on their apparent affections or remark on their closeness - at least not directly. Faraday was the only one to try to, but Vasquez usually kicked him under the table and soon they’d be bickering passionately- much to the amusement of everyone else.  
  
 On the eve of the battle, Billy could sense Goody’s fear as they lounged in their shared room. The air was dripping with the Cajun’s anxiety - which he was failing miserably to hide - his fingers fumbling with his canteen and almost dropping it. Billy felt it in his gut even as he cupped one side of the older man’s face and chapped lips met somewhere in the middle. He could feel it in how Goody held him, almost too tight - desperate and with trembling hands, and how his voice shook when he murmured _mon cher_ into Billy’s ear. The assassin kept his touches gentle, trying to pass on with every pass of his hands and lips the dash of confidence and comfort the older man desperately needed. The comforting touches soon drifted off and the assassin did not stand when his partner did, dark eyes watching as the former soldier straightened his coat and pressed his hat to his head. 

"I can't," Goody rasped. "I can't -" he ran a hand over his face "- I can't lose you. B-but I can't - can't fire again."

Billy stood, his usually stolid expression falling away, mouth turned down and eyebrows at an angle of worry. "Yes _you_ _can_ Goody. I _know_ you can." He took a step toward his partner. "I believe in you."

The Cajun scoffed, but it fell flat as his eyes belayed all his fears. "These people - they are counting on us. Bogue will kill them all if -"

" _I know that!"_ Goody hissed, trembling hands sweeping in an arc. "We made a promise to those people, and we made a plan that no one knows for damn sure whether it will work or not. I know that's why we're here but the owl - it _followed_ me like I told you - it's out there waiting for me to put some poor bastard in my sights and pull the damn trigger." He paced, nervous and frustrated. "I _can't do it_ Billy! The owl said -"

" _I_ _know_ what it said Goody. It is always the same, always about death, but I told you there is no owl." Billy got close again and wrapped his hands carefully around Goodnight's forearms. " _We_ can do this. I will be with you the whole time, just me and you." He leaned forward to rest his forehead to Goodnight's, sighing through his nose audibly. "I will shoot that owl myself," he promised, thumbs stroking gently.

It was quiet then, aside from a few soft voices downstairs and their own breathing. Goody sighed a shaky sigh and pressed his lips to the assassin's forehead, hands going to the other man's hips. Billy began to relax, relief washing over him as the older man seemed to soften and relax - anxiety quieting to a dull whisper.

Fingers dug into his hips and Billy realized the tremors had returned, dark eyes meeting lighter ones as Goody backed away. He shook his head but said nothing as he grabbed his rifle - a stone lodging in Billy's gut. "Goody," he spoke, taking another step toward the other man, who looked almost broken. "Please don't."

Goodnight wanted to rest a hand against the Asian's cheek, if for a moment, but instead breathed a shaky apology before leaving their room. His forehead was still warm where Goody's lips had been, but the stone settled in his gut suddenly grew heavier, and by the time he could hear the hoofbeats another stone seemed to have lodged in his heart as well.

* * *

 

  
_“Wherever I go, Billy goes.”_  
  
 The Asian poured himself another drink, Goody’s words echoing within his skull. The alcohol didn’t burn as it had in the beginning, his grip tightening dangerously on the glass as he hunched over the counter. In the morning Bogue and his army were due to besiege Rose Creek, and with Goody gone the chances of winning had gone from sour to just plain shitty. They had a plan, and even without Goody by his side he refused to abandon his friends and the townspeople. He took another drink, ignoring the men outside the saloon and their occasional glances. The next glass tasted bitter as Billy fought away the depressing thoughts the alcohol was failing to restrain.  
  
 When he finally stumbled upstairs sometime late into the night and collapsed onto the bed, something was lodged under his stomach. When he removed it, Billy realized in the near darkness that it was Goody’s canteen - the silver fleur-de-lis stark against the black material that wrapped around the container. A finger began tracing the emblem slowly, lips pulled down into a frown as memories flowed freely.  

 

* * *

 

 Despite the planned chaos of the battle, Goody remained steadfast in the back of Billy’s mind. With every move he could feel the weight of his lover’s canteen in his vest pocket, pressing the Asian on as he, along with the people of Rose Creek and his comrades, fought bullet for bullet against an army. Soon, the tide of the fight appeared to have shifted in their favor, their explosive traps proving more than useful in eliminating a majority of Bogue’s men.  
  
 At least until the Robber Baron played his trump card.  
  
 More could have died if not for Goodnight thundering into the town like a bat out of hell, yelling a warning as the gun was prepped for slaughter. It didn’t take long for Billy to find the former soldier while the gun was reloaded, hands grasping forearms desperately as they stole a fragile second to gaze into each others’ eyes - a whole conversation passing between them without words - before reality came crashing down and they headed for the church.

"I knew you'd come back!"

  
 His grin was broad, blood rushing in his ears as they started their onslaught from the steeple, bodies falling one by one to their merciless bullets. Billy glanced at Goody as they ducked down to reload once again, impatient to get this fight over with so he could kiss those damn lips of his until neither of them could breathe.

_"Reminds me of somethin' my daddy used to say."_

They were standing now, rifles trained on the men tailing after Faraday as he charged toward the massive gun like he had the devil at his heels. Bodies fell off horses one by one, and soon their fire became focused on the ones in front of the charging gambler.

_"What's that Goody?"_

Faraday was almost there, his gun popping as one of the gunmen fell backwards, before a bullet struck him, body sliding off his galloping horse and into the field. Billy took aim, a man with an eye patch in his sights, the gun glinting in the sun.  
  
_“Well, my daddy used to say a lot of things.”_  
  
 As the haunting sound of the death machine echoed in his ears and the bullets bit through his body, Billy realized those were Goody’s final words. He hadn’t any time to even glance in the sharpshooter’s direction as Bogue’s gun assaulted them mercilessly, something clanging near his chest while the sharp crack of splintered wood sounded to his right. He grunted when his back met the post behind him, body sliding to the wooden planks while he gasped sharply, never enough air entering his lungs. The Asian felt almost numb from all the bleeding holes in his fading body, eyes staring at the spot where Goody had been, at the splintered beam where his lover had fallen through.  
  
 He couldn’t move his limbs, couldn’t shift his neck as he continued to take in shallow breaths while his heart beat desperately, pumping fresh, life-giving blood as fast as it could, only for it to leak from his wounds like sap from a tree. Darkness hedged his blurring vision, but a glint caught his eye and he could still move those at least, focusing on Goody’s canteen that lay beside him, a bullet hole through the front.  
  
 A part of him wished the older man were there beside him, poked full of bleeding holes and breath growing more shallow as the seconds ticked by. They could watch each other and be together to the bitter end, side by side as they had been in life. Another part however was almost glad Goody wasn’t there - he wouldn’t have to watch the man he’d fallen in love with die slowly before him as he lay there, numb and helpless, unable to even reach over and take the other man’s hand as they breathed their last.  
  
 He swore he felt his heart falter a beat or two, his chest not as numb as the rest of his body had become in such a short time.  
  
 He gazed at the canteen with sadness, eyes growing wet.  
  
_“Oh Goody...”_ he murmured with his last breath, cold darkness claiming him greedily as the battle raged on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cocksure - overconfident
> 
>  
> 
> Once again thank you all so much for all the lovely kudos/comments on the last chapter!! I really hope you guys loved this one - it's super fucking long but after a lot of tweaking I feel super happy with this one. <3
> 
> I had a lot of fun writing this chapter whilst trying to capture Billy's character, but if any of you have any suggestions/constructive criticism I would greatly appreciate it! :D
> 
> The next chapter's gonna be a blast ;)


	4. Joshua Faraday: Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off I want to sincerely apologize for the ridiculous amount of time it has taken me to post this update. There were a lot of things going on, and I tend to be super picky about when I think the chapter is finally ready.  
> I hope you guys think this one was worth the wait! Thank you for all your patience!!  
> I broke Faraday's bit into two parts because it felt like it was getting way too long and wordy for one whole chapter with a lot going on, but after part two is finished I am planning on the sixth chapter being the finale. :)

_ "Time is the fire in which we burn." _

\- Gene Roddenberry

 

* * *

 

 

Joshua Faraday had always been an excitable creature, lightning coursing through his veins from head to toe, senses sharp as a fresh blade and soul drawn towards anything that promised a thrill. 

As a child, his mama had had her hands full between lovingly wrestling the devil that was her son to behave and managing their stable - all on her own of course, since Joshua’s daddy skipped town the minute the boy had learned to walk. As he grew, the wildness of Joshua even manifested in his flashy red locks, the partially curled tendrils sticking up every which way. Some of the towns’ locals joked they were like horns, which the boy had found humorous and proceeded to claim them as such. Only his mama’s spit - or an almost-too-big hat he’d been gifted on his 8th birthday - could temporarily tame his mane, but the former was reserved for church day, so he only fussed some when she did so. His clothes were almost always excessively dirty from either playing with the other children or helping out with the horses as he got older, the mix of dirt and sweat like a second skin to the boy and just another hassle for Mrs. Faraday.

As with any spitfire youth, trouble followed close behind like a starved dog - curiosity and a knack for mischief always crawling under his skin. It was an itch that became familiar as seasons rolled by and a boy became a man - or at least as much of a man as one youth of 16 could be in a dusty town this far west. It drove him to sniff out the nearest hive of thrilling stimulation, and the small town’s saloon was just that and more. 

The local saloon was always a hubbub of excitement despite the town’s size - even more so whenever mysterious passersby stopped through for the night, as the saloon also doubled as the inn - and it called to Joshua like a moth to a flame. The musty air was a cocktail of odors ranging from the sweet tang of cigarettes, to the tart and sour musk of sweat and various body odors. Though it was a rather small building, there was just enough room in the back left corner for a piano, the keys often following the dancing fingers of a peculiar fellow with a wonky eye - tickling the ivories nicely despite his condition. 

As soon as his work at the stable was finished - though he tended to linger, as the horses took more of a liking to him than his mama - Joshua would march on over with the sort of cockiness mixed with risky curiosity that pulsates through any young blood. He never drank - he wasn’t exactly old enough and the barkeep knew it - but in those younger years he could’ve cared less about the golden liquor of whiskey that would come to be one of his many coping mechanisms. In his first few visits, Josh would study the wonky-eyed pianist and how his fingers flew over the keys. However it didn’t quell the itch in his skin, nor the near craving the boy felt for something new and fast - something that could keep up with the hot blood in his veins and provide a taste of risk. He found that ‘something’ one particularly hot evening, just as his lips met the rim of a cool glass of water and the pianist faltered. 

There was a harsh scraping of chairs upon wooden planks, followed by something slamming onto a table as a gravely voice spewed venom. 

“You yellow-bellied sonofabitch!” 

Joshua noticed the barkeep tense up, the older man’s gaze locked onto the man making a ruckus. 

“You cheated!” The voice spat again, and it was as if the air in the room had been sucked out. The young blood could practically taste the tension in the air, the hairs on his neck standing up as gooseflesh rose up along his skin - and oh yes _this_ was what he’d been looking for. 

Joshua turned slowly, drink still in hand, and took in the scene. The man closest must have been the one spitting fire, since he held himself tight as a knot, a vein visible along his neck and his yellowed teeth clenched tight. Two other men on either side of Gravel-voice were standing as well, muscles taut and eyes trained on the man across from their riled associate. 

“Now Bill you know I’d never chisel you.” 

The speaker appeared fairly calm for someone in such a precarious situation, but when Joshua looked closer he could spy the soft glint of the man’s gun - visible enough to remind Gravel-voice he was also armed. Licking his lips, Joshua took a sip of his water, transfixed on the mysterious man. 

“Bullshit! I know you switched them there cards!” Billy nodded to the man on his right. “Ol’ Bert saw it too! Didn’ya?” 

The fellow named Bert stiffly nodded his affirmation. The mystery man raised a lazy brow before focusing on the gentleman to Bill’s left. As he proposed his own query, he reached into his vest pocket and produced a cigarette. 

“What ‘bout you Dale?” He fished out a box of matches and lit his cigarette, inhaling slowly before puffing out a small cloud of smoke. “You think I’m a cheat too?”

Dale glanced from Bill to Bert and finally the mystery man, Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. He started to shake his head, but a low growl laced with a threat from Bill got him nodding up and down like a damn chicken. Joshua drummed the fingers of his free hand on his knee, eyes bright as a field in springtime as the air grew more electric. 

There was a disappointed sigh followed by a lazy shake of the head. Mystery man took another drag from his roll before meeting Bill’s gaze head on, lips curling up along one edge. “I thought we were friends Bill.” Here he gestured to each of the three men. “Friends don’t cheat one another - ain’t that right Gordon?” The barkeep - who had been practically frozen the entire time save for a few glances down at the shotgun hidden behind the counter - gave a startled nod. There was the barest flash of a grin surrounded by dark scruff, lips puckering around the roll of tobacco once more. 

“It’s like I said Bill, I won fair ‘n square. So if’n you don’t mind I’ll be takin’ what’s mine.” As he spoke, the scruffy fellow began sweeping the pile of betted money into his hat, Joshua spotting the movement of Bill’s hand before it even pulled the revolver from its holster. 

There was a click, the sound summoning the guns of Bert and Dale - the latter more hesitant than the other two - while Gordon finally reached for his shotgun with one hand still on the counter and eyes trained on the four men. Joshua’s body had gone still, as had the rest of the saloon’s patrons, heart pounding softly in his ears as the tension snapped like a whip. 

The grin fell from mystery man’s face, dark eyes trained on Bill and his revolver. 

“Ya ain’t leaving with _my_ money _Clint_ ,” Bill growled. 

Joshua focused on Clint as he huffed an irritated sigh before taking one final drag, the smoke drifting past his lips like water. He took his eyes off the other man as he ground his spent cigarette into the floorboards, one hand ever so subtly inching towards his right hip. Finally, before Bill could bark another word, Clint met his fuming gaze. 

“You always were shit at poker.” 

If Joshua had blinked he would have missed the impossible speed with which Clint drew his gun. The bullet struck Bill’s gun hand, followed by two more - one for Dale and the other for Bert. Three revolvers clunked onto the saloon’s floor while each man hissed and swore, coddling their injured hands as Clint returned his own weapon to its respective holster. 

Joshua could only gaze in unabashed awe as Clint swept his winnings into his hat while Bill and the other two continued to whine - Dale and Bert both on the floor while Bill remained on his knees. The gunslinger stepped around his former associates, stopping at the counter to nod at Gordon and slide a few silvers towards him. Next he focused on Joshua, who was still trying to figure out how the hell the older man had drawn his gun so damn fast. 

“Little advice son, don’t ever admit to cheatin’.” Clint glanced at the injured men. “Even if you never did.” 

The older man pocketed his money and replaced his hat before patting Joshua on the back once, air finally returning to the stuffy saloon as Clint pushed through the doors and onto the street. Meanwhile, Gordon slid Clint’s silvers into his pocket before replacing his shotgun to its rightful place, the saloon’s previously frozen customers slowly thawing under the wave of unsteady normalcy seeping back into the atmosphere. Joshua glanced at the three wounded men, noting the missing fingers from Bill and Bert’s hands. Downing the last of his water, the boy rose from his stool with a gleam in his eyes and an insistent tugging that lead him to follow the gunslinger named Clint. 

Luckily the older man hadn’t gone far - his steps casual yet laced with a particular swagger that spoke of a man with both experience and confidence in his abilities. The red-head jogged after Clint, calling after the scruffy-faced man - who spared the boy a glance but kept his pace along the dusty street. 

“Don’t reckon your mama’d be too keen on you talkin’ with the likes of me,” he spoke. At that Joshua scoffed, trying to match Clint’s stride - which was almost humorous as the gunslinger’s legs were much longer compared to that of the 16-year old. “Why y’here kid?”

If it had been anyone else, the youth would’ve scowled at the ‘kid’ bit - but this man had just shot three men in the blink of an eye and Joshua respected him because of it. So instead the boy threw on a confident smirk, eyes glittering with admiration and even some hope. “Well sir,” he started, because he still remembered the manners his mama had ground into him. “I was hoping you could teach me to shoot - y’know - all quick like a bolt of lightnin’!” 

For a moment Clint gave no response, keeping his course toward the livery stable. Joshua felt an itch start at the back of his neck, his dangerously low patience receding further. Once again he made an exception for the older man, the boy settling for chewing on his lip in anticipation. The silence stretched on as the two entered the stable, Clint’s eyes on his faithful mount a few stalls down. Joshua continued to keep his mouth shut - an almost monumental task at the moment. 

Clint caressed his horse’s forehead fondly, the dusty grey gelding nudging the man’s arm. “I wasn’t exactly plannin’ on stickin’ around,” he finally replied, eyes not yet meeting the red-head’s. “Just stopped to see old friends, drink, play some cards and win some extra money.”

Joshua’s determination held strong as he shoved his hands into his pockets. “I was just thinkin’ you could show me some stuff before you left - I already know how to use a rifle thanks to old man Henderson.” He couldn’t keep his hands still, so he brought them back out to settle at his hips. “Just the quick shootin’! I’m a fast learner I swear! Just ask the old man!” 

Now Clint’s full attention was on him, dark eyes studying the boy - noting a familiar look in the kid’s eyes. It was a familiar situation that brought both fond and grieving memories to the older man’s mind. A younger brother and a lesson that could’ve helped prevent a tragedy. 

The gunslinger took a deep breath before exhaling slowly, his horse nickering softly as if he understood. “Alright kid, I’ll cut you a deal. I give you lessons and you listen to every word I say - no buts and no back talk - understood?”

Joshua’s face lit up like the sun, green eyes wide and grateful. He quickly nodded his head in agreement and straightened his stance. “Yessir!”

Clint pointed a finger toward Joshua’s chest. “ _If_ you listen good an’ show me you got what it takes I’ll stay a few days,” here he withdrew his forefinger and settled his hand on his gun. He stuck out his left hand. “We got a deal?”

Joshua couldn’t help the slight drop of his jaw at the other man’s words, eyes darting to the extended hand as familiar bolts of energy sparked in his chest. He gripped the man’s calloused hand tight and met Clint’s gaze when he gave a sharp nod of agreement. 

“Deal.”

-:-

 

It was only 4 years after that when Mrs. Faraday was afflicted with consumption.

It came and went like the seasons, chipping away at the woman little by little until her body had no fight left. 

On the better days, Joshua spent most of his time with his guns - bullet-ridden targets receiving the brunt of his anger and frustration from dual-wielded revolvers - that had been a gift from the gunslinger. Clint had taught him the importance of the skill, and his left came to be just as capable in a fight as his right. He still tended the stable, but nowadays most of the stalls were empty. Doctors weren’t cheap - even when they were useless and couldn’t help at all - and people paid a lot for a good horse. 

On the bad days he stayed inside, practicing his card tricks while sitting by the bed with his knees pressed up against the mattress. He could coax a pained smile out of her sometimes, and a few times she’d even had the strength to pick a card from the deck so he could perform a little magic. He often thought, as he watched her cough and hack into a cloth, that if he were a true magician he could banish the damned illness forever. The tricks and sleight of hands were lessons from Clint those few years ago, when he’d let Joshua tag along to the saloon every night. 

_“Shootin’s good, but throw in some magic and you can make people see what they wanna see - and what you_ don’t _want ‘em to see.”_

Joshua had bought his own cards to practice, but the ones he shuffled now were Clint’s. A few weeks ago, a fellow Joshua hadn’t recognized appeared at the stable, sharp, clean shaven face solemn as he explained he was a friend of Clint. He confirmed Joshua’s name before handing over a small parcel. Inside was a letter with a somewhat worn - yet well cared for - deck of cards beneath it. It felt like several blows to the gut to read that letter - the scribbled words easy enough for him to understand as his eyes grew moist and something pricked at the corner of his eyes. The stranger had since removed his hat, repeating what Clint’s message had already revealed, his tone apologetic and sorrowful. 

It made him only hate the world more, the cards finding a permanent home in his vest pocket. Those, and his guns, served as a constant reminder of the closest thing he’d ever have to a father. 

-:-

His mama held out for another year before the consumption claimed her. 

Joshua would never quite shake the image of her still body, cool under his touch with her lips stained red as blood oozed out the corner of her mouth. 

He’d gone and picked her favorite flowers - chigger flowers they called ‘em - and delicately placed them at her grave. 

It wasn’t but a few days after that Joshua Faraday left the town of Shady Springs, the last of the horses sold off save for his own along with the stable and the house. He’d bid his goodbyes to Gordon the night prior, the sympathetic fellow sending him off with a personal bottle of whiskey - on the house. He never looked back.

-:-

“How many you got?”

The barest hint of a pause.

“Two.”

Faraday shot a glance at the two tagalongs behind the duly sworn warrant officer, the woman meeting his questioning gaze with a flinty one of her own. The young man however couldn’t quite hold the gambler’s stare, settling for adjusting his hold on the reins with eyes locked on the back of Chisolm’s neck. Faraday chuffed a laugh. 

“What, them?” 

Chisolm’s face didn’t shift. “You and me.”

“Is it possible?”

“Impossible.”

Faraday’s grin was sharp. 

_Excellent._

-:-

For most people, inebriation made for loose tongues and a thin grasp on propriety. For Faraday, this applied in sobriety as well - a fact he was sure his mama rolled in her grave about. Still, he could hold liquor better than most - in a sense - so it never left him _completely_ stupid. Goodnight Robicheaux received the prescribed respect of a veteran as well as a legend, his silent companion instilling enough sense (it totally wasn’t fear) in the Irishman that he kept to singing drunken trail songs. The Cajun at least bothered to humor him a few times, singing along every now and then, while Billy rode in strict silence. 

His stash of whiskey was a little under halfway gone when they met up with Chisolm, though he could still see straight and only staggered for a half second while dismounting. He did however introduce Billy to Chisolm a few seconds after Goodnight already had, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything did it? Either way, Faraday quickly lost interest in the two apparently old friends once he set his eyes on the tall Mexican approaching. 

He didn’t carry a particular expression on his face as he stood across from Faraday, a pendant or coin of some sort secured around his neck and visible thanks to the unbuttoned top of his shirt. The sun filtered through a few branches of the trees beyond the slightly taller man, illuminating bits of him in a satisfying way the Irishman couldn’t solely blame on the whiskey. 

There was a pause before the gambler put away his bottle, hands going to his hips as he assessed what he could only assume was another recruit for this suicide mission. Despite the glow the sun seemed determined to set upon the darker man, Faraday could only form one phrase to introduce himself.

“Oh good we got a Mexican.” 

The Mexican’s previous neutral expression soured just a bit, though his eyes didn’t express much shock or surprise at the biting words of a white man. 

Chisolm came to the taller man’s side as Faraday attempted to imitate a bull fighter, the word _muchacho_ thrown here and there. Chisolm guided the Mexican away with a hand on his shoulder, the latter expressing mild disappointment as he turned away. 

Watching him go, there was still the glow of the sun, and the tiniest bit of something nipped at him - that maybe he’d been stupid, considering they were to be working together for the next few weeks. Faraday merely shrugged it off and only smirked to himself, satisfied to have made an impression. With that, he turned and gave Jack a good pat, grabbing the reins and leading the man-killer to the river for a well-earned drink. 

Besides, what did it matter how they got along? If they survived this bat-shit crazy job they would all go their separate ways. No point trying to make friends when they could die at the end of this, and if they lived, it only left more people wandering about that knew his name than he was comfortable with. 

“Just you and me Jack,” he chuckled as he patted the drinking horse’s flank, Jack’s tail flicking in response. 

-:-

It was both strange and reassuring to have someone covering his back, the physical press of Vasquez against him only adding to the incredible sensation. It was nice being able to reload his gun without worrying about a bullet from behind, and he figured Vasquez shared the sentiment as he also took a moment to reload before they split for different buildings. 

Most of the men were easy targets, some fool enough to try and run and falling flat on their faces with a bullet in their back. Faraday had a chance to catch the sight of the Mexican flushing out the bank, a lone Blackstone trying to run as he lined up the shot and fired without hesitation. A brief shiver ran through the Irishman, but he forced himself to check on Goodnight, who was currently not the picture of a sharpshooting legend dubbed “The Angel of Death”. He could see the fleeing Blackstone as he approached, Goodnight lining up the shot with shaking hands. 

“Take the shot.”

Nothing.

“ _Take the shot!”_

Still nothing. The distance between the target was now impossible for any ordinary man, but Goodnight Robicheaux was no ordinary man if his reputation had any say. 

“ _Take the damn shot!”_

Goodnight went still a moment, target in sight, and then deflated instantly. Faraday inwardly fumed but kept his mouth shut, analyzing the Cajun and not backing off even when Billy inspected the rifle and claimed it was jammed. 

_Bullshit._

-:-

While Faraday spent most of the week helping plant explosives and attempting to train the residents of Rose Creek how to shoot a gun- a Herculean task at that - Vasquez was busy with repairs and digging the trenches. They mostly bumped into each other toward the evenings once the sun began to dip below the horizon, all seven of them at one designated table as they shoveled food into their mouths and tried to ignore their impending death in a few days. However, there were a few times the gambler would catch sight of the darker man as he worked on the church, his white undershirt untucked and hung somewhat loose around his frame. On a few occasions he was even witness to one of the town’s children offering Vasquez water, rivulets of water dripping past the man’s lips as he drank. His face usually grew hot, which was annoying considering the heat that was already upon them from the sun, and he forced himself to look away. 

Little did he know Vasquez shared his glances whenever the Irishman wasn’t looking, the Mexican often shaking his head afterwards and going about his work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooo some backstory on our favorite gambler! Gotta love that angst.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed reading! :D  
> These first few chapters are going to be more on the angsty side, but it will definitely get lighter at some point lol.


End file.
